


The First Dominoes

by Fleshwerks



Series: Convergence AU [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, say goodbye to your inquisition lavellan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 22:03:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12591488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fleshwerks/pseuds/Fleshwerks
Summary: The Warden-Commander of Ferelden has again come to visit the Inquisitor to untie each other's knots, trade some intelligence, and be on their merry way. This time, she has come with a proverbial chopping block and a blade.





	The First Dominoes

  
  
_Tell me,_ Spiridon said lazily, letting her yank back his head,  _who did it first. You, or Morrigan?  
  
Do what? _Aeres asked and shifted herself in his lap, observing her quarry.  
  
 _Talk like that.  
  
Talk how? _She rested her forearms on his shoulders, clasping her fingers behind his head.  
  
 _Like you learned to talk to people from bad Antivan romance books._ He wrapped his arms around her waist. There was a familiarity in this. Outside the bedroom or a tent it took everything not to grab the Warden, find the nearest high drop and see how far he could throw her, but inside the intimate confines of a sleeping space they knew each other.  
  
 _I grew up in the Circle, Inquisitor. For the longest time all I knew of the world came from books._ She looked into his eyes and yet past them, through them. He wondered if she knew she was doing it, and if, did she play him for sympathy for her own fun?  
  
 _And Morrigan’s excuse?_ He asked.  
  
 _A swamp and, well, -her-._  
  
He knew who -her- was, he’d seen him a year ago, and now she and her dead priests whispered secrets into his ear day and night, whittling down his will, his person and his legendary defiance with corrosive secrets.  
  
At first they’d fucked without words, just cries of pleasure echoing back from the stone walls of the Inquisitor’s quarters or wherever they’d had their cold, chance encounters. But now he liked her to talk - if silence was denied to him, he’d rather hear words coming from a real mouth, a warm, wet and hungry one.  
  
 _Mmm._ He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against her collarbone. Somewhere in that chest beat a cold heart, her skin was warm all the same, even though the choking high collar and thick silk weave she always wore.  
  
 _You’ve gotten skinny,_ he said.  
  
 _I’m on the road,_ a curt answer.   
  
  


He let her bring his head closer, fist still wrapped in his hair, and felt her shift in his lap. Once she had a dancer’s legs but now her little gesture, the squeeze of her thighs around his hips felt weary. And when she kissed him, it felt hungry. A Warden’s kiss was always hungry, but this was a beggarwoman’s kiss. Whether it was her or the old diseased god calling through her he didn’t know, but he let her feast upon him. If there was any flesh to pick off his bones at all, she’d find it. She had the knack. And deep down, as he slid his tongue in her mouth, he was grateful. When he let go of the leashes of the lions and wolves and the hounds, the dragons and griffons and gods they had all turned and sunk their teeth in the Inquisition, proud and fierce creatures all save for the jackal who lagged back and watched and waited.  
  
He broke away from her and buried his face in the crook between her neck and her shoulder, inhaling her scent through the fabric. He knew there were hooks hidden under a fold of cloth along her spine and one by one his fingers sought them out, starting at the nape of her neck. One, two, three he unhooked them, the shell of hardened ash-blue silk falling away from her skin, until all metal snags were undone. He felt the warm skin and the wiry muscles moving underneath, and the harsh cloth against his bruised knuckles as he ran his hand across her back.   
  
She pushed away from him, the heel of her palm against his jaw, her thumb at his lower lip, and for a moment he was judged under her cold grey gaze.  
  
 _I have something to tell you,_ she said at last.  
  
 _Oh no, you’re pregnant,_ the Inquisitor quipped humourlessly.  
  
 _Reach into my satchel,_ she said, motioning at the leather bag to their right, lying where she’d tossed it. He obliged.  
  
 _This?_ He said, holding a scroll. She nodded silently.   
  
He gave her a suspicious glance. The seal of king Alistair Theirin on the scroll was broken. He unrolled it. It was addressed to the Aeres Surana, intimacy shimmering in the ink letters that formed her name and not her title.   
  
He read slowly and in silence, feeling her weight on top of him, but not her gaze. From the corner of his eye he saw her head lowered, hands idly playing with the songribbon tied around his  waist.   
  
 _It  arrived at the Vigil a week ago,_ she said flatly.  
  
Spiridon closed his eyes and exhaled, and for a while remained that way with the letter ´beside him where he’d let it drop.  
  
 _These have been sent out to Redcliffe, the Bannorn council, the teyrnirs and their arlings, and me.  The Bannorn council has not yet answered, it likes your gold. But it will decide soon whether it likes your coin better than the long ruin a fractured nation will bring.  
  
And Amaranthine? _The Inquisitor asked. Her turf. He saw her seek anger in his voice, shock. At this betrayal by Ferelden, anything at all to acknowledge the death blow to the Inquisition so that there could be the slightest chance to tend to it and hope, however faintly, for a healing, but there was nothing there. That too spoke in volumes, and she sighed.  
  
And nodded.   
  
Warden-Commander of Ferelden stood by her king. Ferelden cast off the bandages the Inquisitor had tied around its wounds, and though the scars were new and raw, it was ready to dismiss the healer, recovering and whole and the goals she’d laid out for the nation and the world suffered no sentiment.  
  
The Inquisitor slowly opened his eyes and looked at her. His lips parted and he drew air for words, but whatever he’d intended to say died on his lips. He looked away and rested his hands on her thighs, ears twitching at the sounds from outside the tent, the rustling of leaves as the night wind picked up and made ripples on the canvas walls and the candles on the table, opposite the fur-covered bed flicker.  
  
 _Well, then,_ he said simply and looked at her again.  
  
So the Exalted Council will be called. Ferelden is unifying against the Inquisition. He wondered if her former Spymaster had anything to do with it. One more drop to tip the scales, to force the Inquisition to Orlais, to discredit its leader, to make it the Chantry’s army, the mailed fist she sorely lacked to bring about her intended change of all Thedas.  Justice for the compliant and the downtrodden, blade and poison for the rest. For the world this was a time of hope and new things. And he, he realised, belonged with the terrors he had laid to rest.   
This is how it must’ve felt for the Grey Wardens, a sword thrown back in the shed, dull and nicked, traded for hoes and hammers, brick and mortar, water and seeds. He buried it all within himself, he always did, and his face remained as still as any soulless marble bust they’d made of him during the dark days of the Conductor.  
  
 _Well, then,_ she echoed. _  
  
You committed treason,_  he said at last.  
  
 _You would’ve found out anyway. Now you have some time to do something about it,_ she replied.

 

_Maybe, if I find myself a new god bent on killing the world to use as leverage,_ he replied. The Warden scoffed. It almost seemed that the Warden welcomed the levity, hollow as it was.

 

_In any case,_ she said,  _I was at Orzammar’s Shaperate all this time, you see. I never met you. I’m not the first woman in a way-cloak to enter the Inquisitor’s tent at night and I’ll be gone before sunrise._ The Warden leaned in tentatively and the Inquisitor, and he chose not to pull away. Bodies are just bodies and a touch can be just a touch, even hers, even now at the inglorious end of their association.

 

Again he slid his hands across her back, skin now cool from the autumn air, and pulled the stiff fabric towards him, off her shoulders, running fingers over raising gooseprickles as they kissed. One of the candles on the table burned out, its smoke smelling bitter and oily, mixing with her natural scent. It was different now, he thought as he broke the kiss and savoured her jawline, then her neck and collarbone and her exposed breasts. Again he tasted her skin like he would taste a stranger, like the first time they fucked, exploring one’s boundaries, hungry but polite. Charming, in a cold dead way. He liked the way her skin prickled, her nipples hardened at his harsh lips and tongue. Liked how she looked down at him too, watching without shame from under heavy eyelids.  
  
 _Wait,_ he said suddenly, and reached into his pocket, pulling out a red leather string.  
  
 _Tie my hair,_ he said and nudged her off him.  
  
She took the string for him and stood up straight, upper body exposed, but the rest of the dress still hanging off her hips. He turned on the bed to face away from her.  
  
 _Why,_ she asked, but complied, but he didn’t answer, just vaguely motioned back at her to hurry up.  
  
And as she gathered the mass of long white hair and tied it up with the string a stray realisation occurred to her: it was strangely difficult to tie someone else’s hair.  
  
 _Done,_ she said, and sneered at a job badly done but the Inquisitor didn’t seem to mind. It occurred to her that she’d never seen him with his hair tied back. This way, despite the crow’s feet and the furrows between his brows and the sunken cheeks, he looked naked.

 

_Just wanted it out of my face,_ he said as he watched the Warden undo the ornate clasp of her worn travel belt and shimmied out of her dress. Not seductively, not to put on a show, until she stood in front of her in her long, simple linen underwear that clung to her thighs, tied up just below her knees. Travel smalls. She regarded him for a moment, but in the candle-lit twilight he couldn’t make out her features nor her expression.   
  
 _Come on here,_ he said, voice erring from its usual depth and command, taking on tones of tiredness, fraying at the end of the words. She obliged. He stopped her with his hands on his hips and undid the laces. She watched, arms limp at her sides, his face of stone as he undressed her with the without passion, but it wasn’t a cold act but simply mundane, to the point and in that laid the Inquisitor’s allure. He pulled down her smalls and motioned her to step out of them, and she did and kicked the pile of clothes at her feet away, and again stood. Each previous time they had met he would hand her his reins, minutes or hours, a whole night or day so his blistered palms could heal, his joints aching from the control he had to exert and maintain every day. But tonight he held them firmly. That little bit of control when the wheels of the carriage get knocked off. This, she thought, was how he spoke when words failed and there was no alcohol around to ply the tongue.  
  
Gently but firmly he slid two fingers into the cleft between her legs and she stifled a gasp at the sudden gesture, puzzled when he pulled his hand back again, fingers glistening. He contemplated her arousal for a moment, then pushed off the bed. She took a step back and looked up at the towering Inquisitor, candlelight casting flickering shadows on his harsh, unobscured face as he looked down at her.  
  
They remained still for another moment, and then he began to undo the red songribbon tied around his waist, but instead of letting it drop to the ground like she’d done with her clothes, he rolled it up, eyes still fixed on hers save for a few casual glances to see that the ribbon was rolled into a neat bundle. He did that a lot, she remembered. Always folding his clothes, the heated flow between them brought to a sudden halt. A warrior’s discipline. And when he was done and set it aside  on the bed, he said:  
  
 _You’ll say no whenever you need to._ A statement as much as a question.  
  
 _Yes,_ the Warden tilted her chin up.  
  
His fingers locked around her upper arm and he pulled her forward, then pushed her down on the bed. She landed on her arms and knees, and began to turn herself to face the Inquisitor, but he laid two fingers on her shoulder blade. Don’t. She remained as she was, but snuck a peek at him undressing regardless. Something perversely erotic about the casual yet methodical way he undid the buttons of his trousers and pushed them down just enough to expose his erection, never bothering with removing them completely.  
 _  
_He knelt on the bed behind him and placed a hand on the small of his back, sliding it ever upwards along the spine to between her shoulderblades, pushing her down until her arms buckled under her. With her how he wanted her, he adjusted himself, one hand on her hip, keeping her still, the other hand stroking his cock before he guided himself to her hole and entered her. He adjusted himself again, still in her. The difference in their heights made things complicated, but they’d learned to make do. He let his head loll back, lips parted, low sigh escaping his lips, and another one as she tightened around him to draw more of those sounds from him, to spur him on and feed on his pleasure as he took her.  
  
The first few thrusts were slow, but he picked up the pace, fingers digging into her flesh, skin slapping against skin. Every time she tried to push up to her elbows, he forced her down, ass up as he fucked her, and every time her arms gave in to his pressure he took her even harder, pawing at her ass, then reaching under her to grab her breasts before he straightened up again, and stopped to angle himself just the way to hit the sweet spot in her core.  
  
He slowed his pace to bring himself back from the edge, and push her forward, one thrust at a time until sweat broke on her back and her breaths grew sharp, holding back any moans and cries of pleasure lest the rest of the Inquisition camp hear them screwing even if they were a distance away from the rest of the tents, but he wouldn’t relent, fucking her slowly and deliberately at first, then faster and harsher again until the Warden suddenly struck out her arm, reaching for the pillow at the head of the bed, and buried her face in it, muffling her ragged whimpers.   
  
 _No no_ , he said, stopped and leaned forward to grab her by her hair and twist his face out of the pillow. She gasped sharply for air.

 

_I want to hear this swan song_ , he straightened up, hands trailing her sides until they settled firmly at her hips, and he began thrusting again, slower now, watching how he slid in and out of her and gasping at her cunt tightening around him. His head swam and he bit his lip hard to contain himself, but he gifted her a low moan and she rewarded him with closed-eyed smirk and an exhaled, short laughter.   
  
He took in her silhouette, highlighted by the light dancing on her sweat-sheen skin. For a moment he considered fucking her ass too, or dragging her up by her hair and watching those scarred lips around his cock, but decided against. He wanted this to be short, brutal, devoid of care and contemplation, a punishment and a last hurrah. To fuck her like she’d fucked him when she’d fucked him when she showed him the letter, like Ferelden had fucked him, like Orlais, and the Divine and even the Inquisition itself, when they all had him bare and bound for their pleasures and needs for four long fucking years.   
  
The bitterness stole the fire for him, and panting, he stopped and fell on his heels, cock half-soft.  
  
The Warden rolled to her side, then pushed up, leaning her weight on her arm, concerned eyes fixed on him.  
  
He waved at her dismissively and shook his head, then looked away as he caught his breath. On top of all this, the abuses he’d heaped upon his body with poisons and battles had left their mark, and he was getting old.

 

_Mm,_ she hummed simply and sat by his side, a foot of distance between them. Spiridon stood up and unceremoniously pulled up his trousers, fumbling with the buttons, then sitting back down on the edge of the bed. The Warden silently reached for her dress on the floor, but the Inquisitor stopped her.  
  
 _Not yet. Lie down,_ he said, and pushed the warden gently on the bed as he himself sank to the floor between her knees.

Anger for some is a rapid river, for others a thunderstorm and for others yet, a conflagration. But for Spiridon Lavellan, anger was a pool of molten lead in the pit of his belly, searing hot, cooling eventually but always remaining, cold, heavy, unmoving, impervious to whichever whichever poison he tried to dissolve it with, deaf to any words. He was filled to the brim. Yet even in anger ungenerous he was not. There was no release for him tonight, but he would fuck the Warden with his mouth instead.

 

\---

 

The Bannorn was a lost cause. He’d come to negotiate trade deals with the banns, but if these letters had arrived in the halls of the lords of Ferelden, then the crown and country already felt confident enough in devising the demise of the Inquisition. The Bannorn will buckle. No reason to continue deals, for six months from now the gold flow will stop. There was no future there. The Inquisitor stood next to the table, staring at the canvas wall one hand tucked under the other arm, idly drinking cold water straight out of a pitcher.  
  
 _It would look suspicious if you just up and left the talks in the middle of them,_ the Warden pointed out from the cocoon of wool she’d made for herself on the bed.  _The crown will know that you know.  
  
That’s your problem, _the Inquisitor replied simply and took another gulp before setting it down next to the beeswax candles that now burned low.  
  
 _I’ll be back,_ the Inquisitor said, and exited the tent barefoot to relieve himself. When he returned he found the Warden, still wrapped in the blanket sitting at the table, writing a letter. She raised her gaze.  
  
 _I’m writing a copy for you. I can’t sign it, of course. But I need the original._  
  
Spiridon nodded and headed for the bed, back and knees aching from crouching on the cold ground from before.

 

_All done,_ Aeres said, setting down her quill, blowing on wet ink for it to settle. Quiet settled between them.  
  
 _Should I go?_ She asked.  
  
  


Spiridon turned his head and regarded her.  
  
 _Nah,_ he said and turned back. In the coming days, everything familiar would bleed out of his world. The gold would be gone, the castle would crumble, and friends would turn to strangers, so he let the Warden crawl into bed beside him while he removed his shirt and rested his head against her chest. He listened carefully of the beating of her heart, but it seemed that instead of a soul, a different song thrummed in her. An old song of strange key that no mortal instrument or voice could make, hungry. His ears twitched back and he leaned away, perturbed by this trick of his weary mind, or worse, some demon unspooling his brain and curling it back together after its own design.

  
And instead pulled her head against his and closed his eyes, fingers twitching as familiar pain crept up his left arm as it had done for months now whenever he tried to sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Dialogue in italics is a stylistic choice. Overwrought prose was an alcohol choice. Thank you, Luciferesque, for letting me borrow Aeres again!


End file.
